


Seven Sins

by Asidian



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Coats, Cookies, Credence Barebone Deserves Better, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Food Issues, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-12 19:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9085873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Credence is worthless.He has known this since he was a child. It's in his core collection of inalienable truths, buried among others such as, "God is great and all-powerful," and "Witches will burn in hell."





	1. Greed

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a series of seven interconnected shorts about Credence, his terrible mother, and how Newt and the others help him to overcome awful things.
> 
> AU in that Credence is alive. Assume the wisp of obscurus got away at the end, did some recovering, and reformed into Credence, who showed up at Newt's hotel much the worse for wear just before Newt left for London.
> 
> First fic in the fandom. Woo!

"How's this?" says Mr. Scamander, as he steers Credence toward the full-length mirror on the shop's wall.

And there in the silvered glass, staring back, is a young man in a long woolen coat.

It's a lovely coat. The wool is a deep, charcoal gray, and buttons march down the front, two by two. The collar is wide, and the lining is smooth and soft against his fingers where he's already begun to worry them against the inside of his sleeve.

It's the single nicest thing he's ever worn.

"It's," says Credence.

It's too much, he means to say.

He closes his eyes for a moment, fighting to find the words.

Memories come to him in flashes, then, behind his eyelids, as though they were waiting for a blank wall to play out upon. He recalls snow in the air and a biting wind, harsh through his threadbare jacket and against his uncovered hands. He recalls his own childish question on that long-ago day, when he was still too young to know any better. He recalls ma marching him up the stairs to his room, grip bruising on his elbow; the whoosh of the belt through the air; the way his hands grew sticky with blood.

He remembers being shocked by her vigor – remembers how her words had cut. He had not meant to do anything wrong. They were only gloves, after all. He was only asking.

Credence opens his eyes again, and looks at himself in the mirror. He can read the price tag, the backwards numbers of it proclaiming the coat to be twenty-two dollars. The thought of spending all that on a single garment makes him dizzy. The air rushes in and out of his lungs, but somehow it's not enough to sustain him.

It's too much, he means to say.

But his fingers have not left the sleeve, and the coat is warm about his shoulders, a solid and reassuring weight. "It's incredible," he says instead, and the words sound a little shaky – a little wondering.

Over his shoulder in the mirror, Mr. Scamander's face does something strange. The brow furrows in, and the eyes go soft and searching.

He sets a hand on Credence's shoulder, and just that, all by itself, is better than every coat in the shop, lined up end to end. In the mirror, Mr. Scamander's eyes skitter away, as though Credence is hard to look at. The hand gives a careful squeeze and stays where it is.

"Right then," Mr. Scamander says. With his free hand, he reaches out to snap the price tag off. "You can wear it out."


	2. Gluttony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the shorts for Sloth and Lust mostly drafted; expect them in the next few days. :)
> 
> Thank you so much to the folks who have taken the time to leave kudos or comments. <3

Mr. Kowalski's shop is like a land from a fairy tale.

Ma never let Credence read fairy tales, of course; they were full of the devil's creatures, strange and insidious things with wings and hooves and too many eyes. But he recalls seeing _Fairy Tales of the World_ once, on display in the front window of a bookstore. The cover was rich with color and bold, whimsical brush strokes. The plants were fanciful and odd, with small eyes peeking out from underneath; in the background, towering above it all, stood a castle with peculiar crenellations and vibrant, flapping flags.

Mr. Kowalski's shop reminds him of that book.

There are no plants or castles, true, but something about his work calls to mind the same bold, whimsical brush strokes. Every cake is lovingly frosted. Every croissant is plump and flaky. Every loaf of bread is a perfect, shapely golden-brown. The baked goods are styled to look like the creatures in Mr. Scamander's case, from the delicate curling occamy cinnamon rolls to the stick-like, crunchy bread that forms the spindly limbs of a bowtruckle.

The smell that wafts through, rich and enticing, can always make Credence's mouth wet, even now that he's staying with Mr. Scamander and meals come regularly, three times a day, whether he's made a mistake or not.

Cookies are frivolous, Credence knows. Indulging in excess is gluttony, and God abhors a gluttonous child. Credence knows. He _knows_. He still has the marks down his back, to prove it – a line of pain in recompense for one brief, fleeting mouthful of sweetness at twelve years old.

And yet there is something enchanting about the baker's work – something so captivating about the gingerbread thunderbirds in the glass case at the front. With precisely iced feathers and inlaid raisin eyes, each individual cookie is a masterpiece. The entire shop is.

Mr Scamander is saying his goodbyes, now, and Credence lifts his eyes from the display case.

When he looks up, he finds that Mr. Kowalski has been watching him. Credence flushes, guilty, and his eyes jerk away, toward the floor. The lines between the wooden floor boards are safe; he fixes his gaze there, throat suddenly dry, expecting words of reproach.

There is a moment of silence before the baker circles back around behind the counter, and Credence feels his blush grow deeper, a prickle of shame like a weight across his shoulders. He mumbles an apology, then a farewell – turns to go.

"Hold up a second," says Mr. Kowalski.

Credence freezes, obedient. He turns back, not daring to look up. He half-expects to be berated, the way he once was for admiring a book cover in a shop window. But no – instead, Mr. Kowalski is opening up the glass case and reaching inside with a sheet of wax paper.

Out come the gingerbread thunderbirds, four of them, majestic and lovely, smelling of spices Credence doesn't know. Mr. Kowalski puts them into a tidy white bag; then he reaches over the counter and presses the bag into Credence's hands.

Credence stares down at it.

"My treat," says Mr. Kowalski. "You looked like you might want to give them a try."

When Credence looks up again, searching Mr. Kowalski's face for the hidden reprimand he's certain he'll find, the only thing there is kindness.


	3. Sloth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who's reading, and especially those who have taken the time to leave kudos and comments. I hope you guys are still enjoying! :)

The voice comes to him in the middle of sleep.

"Credence," it says, and the first thing he knows is panic.

Ma doesn't like to wake him. A dutiful child rises before the sun to do God's work, she says. A diligent child can always find something that needs to be accomplished.

It is the devil's child that whiles hours away in idleness, and she will not have the devil's child beneath her roof.

In his rush of terror, every detail floods back with sudden clarity: a late night preparing leaflets, mechanical motions that stain his fingers with ink long after his sisters and even ma have gone to bed. In the morning, his name sharp and brittle in ma's mouth. The clench of her fingers, tight enough to bruise, hauling him bodily from beneath the blanket. The bite of metal, over and over, into his flesh, until his shoulders run with blood.

"Credence," says the voice again.

"I'm sorry," Credence gasps, and comes awake all at once. He does not mean to flinch back – ma doesn't like it when he tries to avoid just punishment – but he does anyway, a whole body flinch, before he can warn himself not to. "What time is it? I didn't mean to –"

It isn't his ma at all. It's Mr. Scamander, regarding Credence with an expression that is decidedly pained.

"I ought to be the one saying sorry," says Mr. Scamander. "If it wasn't time for your medicine, I'd have let you sleep."

Medicine?

For a moment, Credence's mind is blank, an empty slate where the answers should be. Then the last few days trickle back in, thick and reluctant, and he lifts his hand to his own cheek, presses the fingers against skin still scalding with fever.

"Hasn't gone down yet, I'm afraid," Mr. Scamander confirms.

The relief that rushes through him as Mr. Scamander sits down on the edge of the bed is a full-body experience. It makes his head reel and all the muscles in his back, the ones that had been tensed for a beating, slowly relax. His breath leaves him in a rush, and he sags back against the propped-up pillows, suddenly weak.

"Here," says Mr. Scamander, and offers him a cup. "I had time to hunt down the ingredients. This ought to do one better than that muggle concoction. Might taste better, too. Mind the steam, though."

The liquid isn't steaming, oddly enough, despite the warning. Mr. Scamander has never steered him wrong before, though – and so Credence raises the cup to his lips and drinks it down, the whole of it, in three long swallows.

An instant later, as he hands the cup back over, he feels a curious tickling sensation in his ears. That's when the steam begins – not from the potion itself, but from his own head.

"What…?"

"It's a Pepper-Up potion," Mr. Scamander tells him, absently. "Should have you feeling better in no time. Now lie back for me, won't you?"

Credence lowers himself back down to the pillows, obedient. The steam is an odd sensation, but not unpleasant. Already, he can feel the congestion in his chest breaking down, the fever-aches in his joints starting to fade.

"I think it's working," he says, voice faintly awed.

"Splendid," says Mr. Scamander, and reaches down to set a cold cloth on Credence's forehead.

The cool damp of it against his too-hot skin is like a light flickering on in a darkened room, and Mr. Scamander's fingers catch in his hair as he goes to pull away again. Credence shivers and leans up to chase the touch. He doesn't mean to; his body moves on instinct, before he can stop it.

And Mr. Scamander has noticed, plainly. The fingers return, hesitant, to card through his hair.

"Go back to sleep," says Mr. Scamander, quietly. "I'll stay for awhile."

Credence nods, and he closes his eyes to ward off the threat of tears.


	4. Lust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrath is up next, then envy, and then pride. Wrath's mostly drafted. Envy and pride I have ideas for, but they definitely need some work.
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with me, everyone, and thanks for the lovely comments! <3
> 
> Also: I hope you all have an amazing 2017!

At fifteen, Credence is nearly as tall as his ma.

When she holds meetings, he lingers by her side, a thin, gangly youth in black, shadowing the proceedings with leaflets held before him like a shield. He watches the ground, mostly, or his own hands, pale and bony and pocked with welts.

He does not often look at his ma. Her face makes him uncomfortable when she's addressing an audience, the hard set of her jaw and too-bright glint to her eyes. He does not often look at the audience, either. If they like what she has to say, they reflect back her disconcerting zeal; if they don't, ma will be in a poor mood later.

But on this day a flash of color in the crowd catches his eye, a splash of brightness amid the blacks and grays of business attire.

When he looks up, he sees that the woman is perhaps twenty years old, in a slender red coat with a high collar of thick, dark fur. Her hair is black, short and sleek, peeking out in little curls just below her ears. Her lips are painted red, and her eyes are lined with kohl. She looks impossibly sophisticated, as though she stepped straight out of one of the film posters on display outside the Capitol Theatre.

And for some reason he cannot possibly fathom, she's looking at Credence.

On three separate occasions, he glances up – and each time, the woman's eyes are on him, dark and thoughtful.

When ma is done speaking, the crowd comes to take fliers. Credence offers one to an old man, and one to a respectable businessman in a suit and tie.

Then the woman in red is beside him, holding out her hand. It is a delicate hand, trim and graceful. The centers of the nails have been lacquered a brilliant cherry red.

When she takes the leaflet, her fingers brush against Credence's and linger too long. Credence's eyes dart from those slim fingers, to the words on the flier, to the woman's face. She smiles when she catches his eye, slow and crooked. It's a warm smile – and despite the chill weather, it makes him feel a little warmer, too.

He doesn't know that ma is watching until they get back to the church. She doesn't say a word until then.

But as soon as she closes the door behind them, she says, "Give me that belt, you unspeakable disgrace." Her voice is hard as stone; her eyes are hard as steel.

Chastity and Modesty slink away to do their chores, and they do not say a word.

At nineteen, Credence stands taller than everyone else in the room. He certainly stands taller than Miss Goldstein, whose pretty blonde curls come no higher than Credence's shoulder.

She is perfect the way a picture is – the way the ladies in the film posters outside the Capitol Theatre are. Something about that comparison makes Credence's thoughts catch and rear away, like a horse in distress, but he cannot quite put together why.

Then Miss Goldstein smiles and says, "How do you do?"

It is a warm smile; when she offers her hand, the nails are lacquered red. Credence freezes, mind blank, heart pounding in his ears.

Miss Goldstein pauses. The smile flickers and slips away. "Oh," she says. "Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. Come here."

And she tugs him down, and down, until his head is resting against her shoulder. Her arms slip around his back and settle there, and Credence takes a shaky breath in.

She holds him until his heart has slowed – until his mind is on the present, instead of the way the belt buckle felt against his bare thighs and how it was a full week before he was able to sit down again.

Then Miss Goldstein reaches up to give his hair a ruffle. When she pulls back, her eyes are wet.

"That's better," she tells him, not unkindly, and offers her hand again. "Now – Credence, isn't it? It's a pleasure to meet you."


	5. Wrath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more left! After this is envy, and then pride will bring us to a close.
> 
> Thank you so much to the wonderful people who took the time to leave comments or kudos. You guys give me life. <3

Control is a fragile thing.

It is the tentative, by-the-fingernails grip he keeps on his own tears when he kneels so that ma can whip his shoulders. It is the moment of hesitation just before he steps out the door, jacket-less, on the first day of snow in winter.

It is lying in bed at night, feeling something inside him, black and roiling and nameless, and fighting until it falls quiet again.

Control is a fragile thing – and no matter how firmly Credence clings to it, even steel will crack when placed under so much pressure for so long.

He dreams of it, still. He dreams of city streets, slick with rain, and Credence high above them, tearing himself to pieces. He dreams of nights where his mind is half-gone, where he bursts free from himself and rains down fire and brimstone on those who stand before him, like the Old Testament's vengeful God.

 He dreams of the church floorboards shattered, the table where he printed leaflets for the people of New York in splinters and shreds. He dreams of the fliers on the floor, the words screaming up at him like a brand seared into his skin: "Hellfire will swallow the witches among us!" He dreams of Chastity, cold and dead – of his ma, so very still, purple jacket like a growing bruise there on the floor.

He dreams of Modesty. She screams, and screams, and screams. Her shrill, high voice is like a knife in him; her terror is a confirmation of every leaflet he's ever printed.

He wants to tell her everything is all right. He wants to say that he did it for her – that if ma had not turned with the belt in hand, away from Credence and toward the brave young thing in the hallway, who admitted her transgression to spare him a beating, the monster inside him might have stayed quiescent  a while longer, yet. He might have clung to his thread-thin control.

But in these dreams, he cannot speak a word. Modesty goes on screaming, until the black cloud rises up to choke the awareness from Credence's mind.

When it fades again, his sister lies dead at his feet.

Beside her are Mr. Scamander, and both Miss Goldsteins, and Mr. Kowalski.

Credence stares down at them, numb, willing them to move. Willing them to open their eyes, or take a breath. A part of him remembers Mr. Scamander's words, even here, caught in nightmares. He has great power, and not only for destruction. A wizard's magic does not mean ruin or despair.

In the dreams, this recollection does not help him. His ma is still dead, and his sisters, and all of those brave enough to risk his presence. The black thing twists inside him, coiling like a poisonous snake ready to strike, and Credence bows his head against the weight of despair.

"Credence," says Mr. Scamander's voice – and Credence lifts his eyes to the lifeless body before him, hope a painful spark in his chest.

The obscurus' marks trace across the corpse's face like the delicate pencil lines in Mr. Scamander's newest manuscript. The skin below them is lifeless and gray; those kind eyes can see nothing anymore.

"Credence," says Mr. Scamander again. "Wake up."

And for a wonder, Credence does.

He comes awake with a shudder and a moan, and already there are arms around him, holding tight. The obscurus is slipping through, black wisps like fine grains of sand, shifting and writhing, but Mr. Scamander is not afraid. He presses a hand to Credence's hair and speaks low in his ear. "There you are. That's the way. Stay with me, now."

When Credence closes his eyes, he sees the splintered floorboards of the church. He sees his ma's face, deathly pale, riddled with black marks like some elaborate witch's spell. He swallows, and his throat makes a dry clicking sound.

"It was a dream, is all," Mr. Scamander is saying, and Credence opens his eyes again. His vision is consumed by the striped cotton of Mr. Scamander's pajamas; his senses are wound up in plain affection, given freely and without reservation.

It is better than he deserves.

"Not all of it," says Credence.

Mr. Scamander does not pull away. "The church again?"

Credence nods cautiously, and Mr. Scamander takes a long breath in and lets it out slow. Competent, calloused hands tighten around his shoulders, as though Credence is something worth holding onto.

"A dream," Mr. Scamander repeats, more firmly this time. One of those hands finds Credence's – lifts it as though it were a discovery and holds it aloft, a scrap of evidence ready to be examined. "That's all over and done with, now. You see?"

It's true; the skin of his hand is pale and unbroken. The black cloud has dissipated already, retreated back to some place within, where it is small and scarcely noticeable. It is easier, these days, to make it go away.

"Mr. Scamander?" he asks, very softly. "We'll find a way to be rid of it, won't we?"

"Sooner than you know," Mr. Scamander tells him. And somehow, Credence finds that he believes this.


	6. Envy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the home stretch now, guys! Pride's the last. It might take a bit; I have ideas, but no draft. Thank you so much for staying with me and reading, though. Hope you enjoy! o/

Credence is worthless.

He has known this since he was a child. It's in his core collection of inalienable truths, buried among others such as, "God is great and all-powerful," and "Witches will burn in hell."

He knows because ma tells him so. A child with intrinsic worth would not be so wicked or unrepentant. A child with intrinsic worth does not have a brazen, unnatural creature for his birth mother.

The notion becomes lodged within him, as thoughts sometimes do, stuck like the sharp end of a hammer into soft wood. Worth becomes a point of fascination for him.

Sitting down to dinner on hard wooden benches at a bare table, he has the time to take the concept out for inspection. While ma serves thick pea soup with bits of ham floating in it, and while Chastity slices up a loaf of dense brown bread, Credence folds his hands in his lap and stares down at them, at the streaks of blood still drying on his knuckles.

Worth, he thinks, as his ma and sisters begin to eat, is something he would like to understand. He would know not to do the things his ma becomes so upset about, if he were a better son. Perhaps if he behaved like Chastity, with her intense focus and stringent zeal – or like Modesty, who parrots back ma's lessons like the words hold the secret to the universe.

Intrinsic worth, he thinks again later, when the scalding dish water burns the new cuts on his hands. Does that mean he has no chance to improve? Surely not. Why would ma teach him these lessons, if she saw no hope for him?

Credence polishes a bowl carefully dry and sets it back in the cabinet. His stomach twists around empty space, demanding to know why, for the second night in a row, he has put nothing in it.

Tomorrow, he promises himself, as he always does. Tomorrow, he will be better.

But tomorrow, he gets it wrong again.

On the corner of 34th Street, ma says that each person in New York has a set of ears that must hear the word of God. Chastity says that each pair of hands should hold their pamphlets, that they might be drawn to hear ma speak of the weight of sin. Modesty says that the witches among them should quaver in fear of the flames.

His ma sets a hand on Modesty's head then, gently, so as not to muss the neatly plaited rows of her braids. She sets a hand on Chastity's shoulder, scarcely enough to brush against the thick black of her winter coat. They are brief touches, proprietary and affectionate both at once.

Credence looks away – and after they have gone their separate paths, leaflets in hand, he hunches his shoulders and bites at his lip.

Somehow, he always gets it wrong.

It's a thought that follows him forward, not just days, but years and years. It follows him up to the streets of New York again, where he does not stand with leaflets, but sits folded up on concrete steps, a hotdog in his hands.

Miss Goldstein sits beside him, the high gray collar of her coat up against the chill, her short, dark hair precariously close to the mustard on top of her own hotdog. Mr. Scamander has ducked inside for a moment – no, no need to tag along, I'll just be a tick – and Credence has known him long enough now to translate those assurances. He will be breaking entirely more rules than Miss Goldstein is comfortable with, most likely.

And so Credence sits on the steps outside, and they eat their hotdogs, watching the flow of the crowd on the sidewalk below.

"How are you liking staying with Newt?" Miss Goldstein asks, at length.

Credence fidgets with his hotdog bun; some of the bread gives way beneath his thumb, and he has to lunge to catch it before it falls to the sidewalk. "It's very nice, thank you."

Very nice does not begin to encompass it. Very nice skirts around the edges of what has been, easily, the best time of his life.

Miss Goldstein chews thoughtfully as she looks at him. "He can be pretty careless, is all," she says.

"Mr. Scamander?" Credence blinks; the thought of his host being careless with any of the creatures in the case – or indeed, with Credence himself – is so foreign that it nears laughable. "Oh, no. He's very attentive."

All at once, Credence clamps his mouth shut. He's gone and done it again – gotten it wrong. Contradicted her, and after she's been so patient with him, too. He swallows reluctantly, eyes on the concrete, the taste of the hotdog in his mouth and the weight of it in his stomach suddenly something he does not deserve. "Sorry," he mumbles.

Miss Goldstein snorts. "Don't you ever say sorry to me. You say what you mean, and then you live up to it. That's all."

There's something determined in her eyes – something that reminds him, a little, of a story Mr. Scamander tells. Credence himself doesn't remember that day, of course. Mr. Scamander says it was obliviated out of him, but he can imagine the scene.

He can imagine Miss Goldstein, eyes blazing, wand up like a sword, knocking his ma away from him.

Credence wonders what she sees in him – what she saw in a hunched-over No-Maj boy, getting punished for something he doubtless deserved.

"Yes, ma'am," says Credence.

Miss Goldstein's face softens then. She reaches out to set a hand on his shoulder, and when she takes it away, she's left a smudge of mustard on Credence's new wool coat.

He finds that he does not mind in the slightest.


End file.
